|Please Tell Mom This Is Not Her Fault
Author: battousai24 PM
About a boy, depressed about a lot of things, but more importantly, because of his parents never noticing him. [One-shot]... for now. I'm still thinking about continuing it.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Words: 941 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 03-21-06 - id: 2137810
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Please Tell Mom This Is Not Her Fault
By C.S. Raine
Cyrus sighed and leaned back so that his head was on top of the bed. He was sitting down on the floor, his pocketknife in hand. His left wrist had numerous scars, and fresh cuts. Some of the blood was already dripping down to the carpet. His eyes looked tired and were bloodshot. He hasn't slept for days. All he did was stare at the walls of his room and sit like this, barely moving. He hasn't eating anything either. He had a few bottles of soda and beer at his side and a bunch of cigarette packs somewhere on the bed. He shut his eyes for a while and his eyebrows furrowed. When he opened them again, he let them rest on the radio beside him. On the LCD, it said: Track 09 – 01:51. On the upper right hand corner, there was a small circle with the number 1 on it, reminding him that the song was playing over and over. And then he heard the line he'd been dreading…
"Please tell mom this is not her fault." Muffled sobs escaped his throat. He didn't want to cry again. Besides, there were no more tears left to shed. He lifted a hand to reach up to the bed, grabbing a random cigarette pack. He growled to himself when he discovered it was empty and threw it across the room. He grabbed another random pack and was satisfied to see it still had a few sticks left in it. He popped one out and put it between his lips, taking his lighter out of his pants pocket, he reached up and lighted the cigarette, taking one long drag before slipping the stick in between two fingers, and let his arm drop to his side, flicking the stick on the ash tray. He took a bottle by his side, grumbling when he found out it was only soda, but popped it open anyway, downing it all in less than a minute. He let the bottle roll on its side when he put it down on the carpeted floor. He didn't care where it went or what happened to it.
By now, the song playing on the radio had started again. Any minute now, he'll hear that dreadful line again, and feel the guilt of doing this. He smirked. He never cared about family before. It didn't matter to him whether they were there or not, but hearing that line just made him want to cry. His mother was never there for him andneither was his dad. They were always busy doing work if not sleeping or taking care of other people. It was never him they bothered to attend to, even when he was little and get into little accidents. He remembered it so clearly when he'd run up to them as a little boy, frowning as he showed them his bleeding wound. His mom, being the doctor, looked at it for a while and just told him to put a band-aid on it. Even when he'd come home from school with a sprained ankle or wrist, sometimes with a bandage wrapped around it, they wouldn't care, as if it were unimportant and just mumbled out that it always happened and it wasn't surprising anymore. He'd frown then, and run up to his room and cry. He wanted them to actually notice him for once, but they never did. And despite the fact that he hated being invisible to them, he got used to it. He became bitter about small things, then more things. Then eventually, he was bitter about everything, hating everything. He became very distant from everyone, and distanced himself from every form of care and love, especially physical contact. He became uncomfortable with it at first then soon, grew to hate it, but deep inside, he still longed for it.
"Days when I can still feel alive…" The band continued to sing their song, never failing. Cyrus closed his eyes again, and slowly drifted off to a light sleep, feeling tired now. His cigarette was now put off in the ashtray. The song continued to play, giving him relief. It had always relieved him to hear a song that he could relate to at times like this. It helped vent out his frustrations and somehow, also calmed him. He was finally rest his tired eyes and at least feel a little bit better. He hoped that when he woke up, things would be better. He hoped that when he opened his eyes, everything will fall into place again, and he'd be okay. He smiled in his sleep. Yes, someday, he'll finally be okay and he didn't have to pretend. He was sure of it, but for now, he knew he needed to rest. After all, everything heals in time. And with that, he fell into sleep, knowing that it was always him who could solve his own problems. It may take longer than most people for him to get back on track, but he'd always get there in the end. After all, everything heals in time.